Anywhere But Here
by Mindy35
Summary: Elliot/Olivia. Post-ep for "Surrender Benson" (sort of, slightly AU). Elliot resurfaces in the aftermath of Olivia's ordeal with William Lewis.


Title: Anywhere But Here

Author: mindy35

Rating: T, adult themes

Disclaimer: Characters aren't mine, no money made (just peace).

Spoilers: Anything through to "Surrender Benson" is fair game.

Pairing: Elliot/Olivia, references Benson/Cassidy, Benson/Amaro.

Summary: Post-ep for "Surrender Benson" (sort of, goes slightly AU). Elliot resurfaces in the aftermath of Olivia's ordeal with William Lewis.

A/N: My 20th SVU fic. Yay.

* * *

Olivia looked left then right before closing the door and stepping out into the empty corridor. The hotel's carpet felt plush beneath her feet, the décor was comfortingly anonymous and the muzak was always kept at an unobtrusive volume. Heading down the narrow corridor towards the elevator, she tried with every movement not to disturb her brutalized body which creaked and cringed when attempting to stride in its normal, confident fashion. Instead she moved slowly, cautiously, eyes watchful despite being dry and swollen from too many sleepless nights and too much uncontrollable weeping. Her head likewise resisted the heavy urge to bow to the pain that throbbed at her temples and behind her eyes. She ducked her head briefly though, just to check that she looked decent enough to grace the mangy streets of New York.

Her sweats and t-shirt looked stained and rumpled. But practically anything went in New York and she was beyond caring about the outside world, possessed as she was by the nightmares within. For the past few, frighteningly solitary days, wherever she was, she was restless, desperate to move on, away, up, _out_. Just not down, not down into it. Her pace quickened slightly at the thought of strolling the purposeful, populated streets, even though her battered face and wilted hair made children recoil from her like she resembled a monster. She didn't care. Nor did she care how her body protested the extra spurt of energy introduced into her stride. Not until she rounded the corner and collided with a tall, hard body in a jolting, fleshy smack.

"God—!" Her body doubled in belated defense, arms wrapping round her middle.

"Sorry! Sorry…sorry…" His apology repeated over and over, his voice low and contrite and instantly recognizable.

Her voice emerged as a strangled hiss. "_Jesus Christ_, Stabler."

Elliot put a hand on her stooped shoulder. "Breathe."

"I'm trying," she muttered, feeling behind her for the solidity of the wall.

"Slow, even breaths…" he said as she fell back against it and started sliding downwards.

"Shut up," she rasped, lips pursed in a shocked 'o' as her breath tried to find some uninjured part of her ribcage to inhabit.

He gave her a moment to catch her breath, eyes running over her as if they could inventory her internal injuries as easily as they could perceive her external scrapes and bruises. Withdrawing his hand, he asked quietly, "Cracked ribs?"

"Three," Olivia sighed, butt landing on the floor and head dropping back against the wall. "And that really helped, thankyou."

"Hurts like hell," he mused, sitting down beside her. "I know, I've been there."

She shook her heavy head against the wall, voice still not full strength and still a little irritated from the impact as she asked, "What in hell are you doing here?"

Her partner took a breath. "Amaro called me. Said you asked for me."

Her eyes slipped shut. "Never happened."

"Well, you were unconscious at the time."

There was a pause.

Her brow furrowed in confusion, her eyes shifting beneath their lids. "What…?"

Elliot's voice seemed closer, more hesitant when he told her, "At the hospital. Apparently you said my name in your sleep. More than once."

Her head came upright, her eyes opened. "Well, I was heavily drugged." She shifted her butt on the floor, looking like she wanted to get up but knowing she couldn't manage it quite yet.

So the two of them simply sat there, sprawled against the apricot-colored wall as an impeccably dressed white-haired couple passed by. Two sets of withered eyes cast their grey and black and blue bodies a carefully neutral glance while the scrawny dog in the woman's arms sniffed suspiciously their way. Elliot waited until the elevator had come to collect the trio before gesturing at the path she'd been taking and asking:

"Were you goin' somewhere?"

"Out."

"That's…specific."

"I don't like walls," Olivia muttered, staring straight ahead at the one opposite. "Or rooms." She sighed, head lolling in the direction of her own room. "The windows in there barely open. I just needed some fresh air."

Elliot nodded then rose. Standing above her, he extended a hand. "I'll walk with you."

Olivia didn't give the offered hand a glance. Instead, she used the wall behind her to lever herself up onto her feet. "Think I'll just go ice my ribs instead..." She refused to wince as she straightened then, heading back to her room, she tossed a look over her shoulder. "Thanks for stopping by though, real nice of you."

Elliot stayed where he was, not following but not retreating either. "Liv."

"I'm fine," she said before he could offer anything more. "You've performed your little mission of mercy," she waved a hand at him then stuck it in her pocket to find her keycard, "you can tell Amaro you did your bit and hurry on home to Queens."

Now, he moved, taking three steps forward, an eagerness to his stance and tone as he told her, "I don't live in Queens anymore."

Olivia stalled briefly, her spine stiffening. Then she swiped her card and heaved open the door. "Well, things change, I guess."

Suddenly Elliot was at her side, head bent toward hers, eyes fixed on her face and fingers resting on her wrist. She looked up before she could stop herself and for the first time in two years, seven months, three days and eight hours, their eyes met.

"Hey—" His voice caught in his throat as their eyes connected and held. Something he saw in hers made him drop his gaze though and, when he did, Elliot saw that his fingers were resting on a purple rope burn. He drew them back, cleared his throat. "Can I come in? Just…one drink. For old time's sake."

Olivia pulled her body back from his orbit, hating her breath for deepening and causing her ribcage to ache more than it already did. She tugged the sleeve of her hoodie down over her bruised wrist. "I don't drink anymore," she said before heading inside.

She didn't close the door on him though. She shoved it open then let its own weight ease it back until it snagged on Elliot's shoulder. Neither did her parting salvo, so stoically delivered, seem to conclude their conversation. It only served to remind him of the meticulous synopsis Amaro had given him, incorporating all the details the salivating newspapers hadn't known and the dispassionate press releases had omitted. He knew the younger detective was bestowing such confidence on him only because he would've wished for the same, he'd have needed to know every last, gruesome detail of his partner's abduction and assault.

Elliot watched his former partner's back as she headed deeper into her room, a hitch in her normally smooth step and a chaos to her normally picture-perfect hair. As he did, he reminded himself of why he'd come. He'd known there would be a lot to break through – there always had been with Olivia Benson. But this time, he wasn't giving up. This time, he wouldn't let her down. This time, he wasn't walking away unless she told him to. This time, he would be there, right there, always there, unquestionably there, until she cracked into a million pieces. And _even then,_ he would be there.

He wasn't going anywhere.

-x-

Her room was an uncharacteristic shamble. Leggings and bras lay abandoned on the floor, scrunched tissues dotted the bedding and both nightstands, a newspaper was splayed on the stiff, squat sofa and a mound of browning flowers had been relegated to a rank little corner where they were slowly perishing unappreciated. Elliot stood by the window, which had been cracked as far as possible, and watched Olivia bend with difficulty to the mini-fridge.

"So why aren't you at Cassidy's?" he asked, attempting to keep his voice light and casual. "I dropped by and he said you only stayed a night."

She shrugged, her reply muffled as she ferreted about in the fridge. "He was hovering, being all…nice. It was freakin' me out."

Elliot linked his hands behind his back and resisted the urge to help her. "The guy's been crazy about you for years, Liv."

It cost him a little to say it. He still remembered how Cassidy used to look at his partner – at _all _of her, not just her face but her chest and her legs and her ass. He remembered how he'd go out of his way to impress her with his terminology, how he'd straighten his spine and quit munching on his own tongue whenever she entered the squadroom, how he'd wink at her if she passed him a file or a donut. He hadn't liked it even back then and had been more than a little relieved when the other man transferred out. Perhaps he had simply been jealous that Cassidy was free to act on his attraction to Olivia, however coolly his attentions were received. Or perhaps back then he didn't care what or who Olivia did in her private life, as long as she was all his while they were on the clock.

That was then, this is now.

Their partnership had been in its infancy then and neither of them could have predicted how intricately involved they would become in each other's private lives. Hearing of Olivia's recapitulated romance with Brian Cassidy had made his heart halt and his brain heat in his skull. Only the corresponding disapproval and irritation of Detective Amaro soothed his stricken reaction. That and knocking at Cassidy's door and finding that she was not in fact residing under his roof. Elliot might've been surprised if he didn't recall every last detail of Olivia Benson that he'd managed to gather in twelve years of partnership and friendship – including her talent for bailing on the men she was supposed to be most intimate with. Not that her relationship status was what he'd come here – breaking a two-year silence – to discuss. He had to note though that, despite his absence, his partner didn't seem to register as strange his knowledge of her current relationship or the fact that he'd tracked her from her lover's apartment. Which either meant she was actively avoiding an awkward conversation with him or her ingrained detective instincts had been impaired by tiredness and trauma.

"It was nice while it lasted…" Olivia was saying, rising to her feet with a bubbly water and a small bucket of ice, "but it's over now."

"Doesn't have to be," Elliot replied with a non-committal shrug.

"Brian can't deal with this level of shit. That's why he transferred out all those years ago." She dropped a few cubes of ice in a glass and filled it with fizzing water. Head shaking, she went on in murmur that was equally bitter, fond and frank: "You should've seen the look on his face when I stepped out of the shower and he saw all the marks on my body. They'll never go away and he'll never look at me the same way again..." She faced him, glass in hand and a dark twinkle in her eye. "They kinda break the mood, you know, when you're only in it for a fast, fun fuck." Stalking toward him, she shoved the glass into his hand so hard that she effectively punched him in the gut as she passed.

Elliot absorbed the blow and looked down at his drink. "If he loves you, he'll love everything you've survived."

"Oh yeah?" Shedding her sweater, she pitched it into the receiving mitt of a chair so hard that the thing rocked on its haunches. "He's gonna love the scars where his steel-capped boots kicked in my abdomen, is he? And the rope marks round my wrists and ankles and neck? And he'll love the burns on my breasts where the bastard pressed my own keys into the tenderest flesh he could find?"

Elliot nodded calmly in the face of her fury. "He'll adore every last one."

Olivia scoffed, closing her eyes and turning away. Then she yanked a hand towel off the windowsill where it had been drying in the meagre breeze and marched back to the mini-fridge. Spreading out the towel, she muttered to herself about him being a choir boy as she dumped handfuls of ice into the middle.

"Show me," he said softly when her mutterings seemed to have lost some of their steam.

She shot him a laughing glance. "Yeah!"

He took a step forward. "Show me and I'll show you what I mean."

Olivia faced him, blinked once then shrugged. "Fine." She grabbed the hem of her t-shirt and ripped it over her head. Then she took a step closer, eyes narrowed and jaw grit. Like her face, her torso was a garish composite of black, purple, red and yellow bruises. Just as she'd said, there were several angry gashes cutting across the length of her abdomen and assorted sized burns on her chest, breasts and sternum, some of which had split and bled through her plain white bra. One side of her body had been completely reinforced with gauze and beige hospital tape. One wrist was strapped into a cast and cigarette burns ran down the inside of both her arms. But Olivia pulled herself up to her full height, glowering at him as she advanced. "Distinctive, aren't they?"

Elliot swallowed the lump in his throat, eyes lifting back to hers, searching hers as his brows contracted. "S'that supposed to scare me off?"

She tipped up her chin. "It should."

"It doesn't," he murmured, easily holding her gaze.

"I'm a walking freak show, Elliot."

"Join the club."

"Really? Who are you?" She tipped her head to one side, regarding him with a critical eye. "The amazing tattooed man? With more ink on his skin than hair on his head?"

His eyes sparkled as he fought the sudden, inappropriate grin he wanted to unleash. He had to relinquish her gaze then for fear of laughing out loud. Which probably meant she'd won that round – not that he cared. Shuffling on his feet, mouth still tugging upwards in amusement, Elliot said, "Look, we can sit round and compare battle scars all afternoon—"

But Olivia was taking her win and running with it.

"Sounds like a swell way to pass the time," she muttered, retreating to the fridge to bundle up her ice, "but I wasn't actually looking for company. And clearly—" she moved to the little couch, shooing the newspaper off onto the floor, "I wasn't expecting any." Casting a pointed glance at the mess, she lay back on the sofa, ice-pack on her bruised ribs and eyes on the ceiling. "Maybe next time you could call first…?"

Elliot clenched his jaw, debating whether or not to pick up on this last comment – whether now was the right time to offer an explanation for his lack of communication, for his sudden disappearance. It was true, he hadn't called, not once. He'd picked up the phone countless times, staring for hours at her name on the display, wondering why in all the years he'd sat opposite her he'd never bothered to snap a picture of her face. Each time though, he'd lost his nerve. Just as he had when driving past her apartment late at night, looking up to see if her lights were on. Once they were and he saw her silhouette pass by behind the curtain. He should have gone up then, shown his face, offered her something, however inadequate.

But the truth was – he had no explanation. He had no idea why it had all suddenly hit him, why everything suddenly overwhelmed him. Not just the bodies and the blood and the tears and the stories. And not just the politics and procedures and endless injustice. But the wanting her and the not having her, the guilt and shame and utter exhaustion of loving someone so faithfully yet so silently. For two years, he'd counted the days, knowing that if— _when_ he saw her again, it would have to come out. He would have to explain his desertion and nothing would exonerate him but the absolute truth. Maybe he was delaying all that time – waiting for his love to dissipate or his life to make sense or his mind to form the perfect sentence – just as he had for the twelve years prior. Or maybe he had been unconsciously building up his strength, conserving it for the emotional obstacle course she would no doubt subject him to. Olivia had any number of tricks to intimidate men out of her company. Lucky for him, he already knew most of them and had built up a singular immunity.

Taking a slow sip of his drink, Elliot found a chair and sat. The breeze coming in the window was making the white curtains gently billow. And for a moment, he let the silence just sit. He let his gaze wander round the room, pausing briefly on a painting of a stormy beach before moving onto Olivia's reclining form. She'd shut her eyes, possibly in an attempt to shut him out. But her breath was now even and deep, indicating that the initial shock and anger she'd experienced at his appearance was perhaps passing.

"So." He took another sip of bubbly water, licked his lips in preparation, "You wanna talk about it?" He kept his question broad and tone neutral, leaving it up to her to pick a subject she felt safe in.

Olivia didn't crack her eyelids. "Not even a little bit."

He bobbed his head, hardly surprised by the swiftness of her rebuff. "You seein' someone then?"

"Every week," she admitted with a nod. "You?"

"I was. More like every month now."

"Well…bully for you."

Elliot set his glass on a nearby table, leaning forward to prop his elbows on his knees and knit his fingers together. "He's helped me work through some stuff, realize some…other stuff."

Olivia opened her eyes and turned her head toward him. "Sounds very deep."

He held her gaze, head shaking slightly, sadly. "I'm sorry, Liv."

She sat up slowly, ice still pressed to her stomach, melting under her hand. "What for?"

He had a lot to be sorry for, a lot he wanted to explain and apologize for. He began with what he saw as his most recent transgression, voice crackling with guilt and grief as he whispered, "I shoulda been there."

Looking away, Olivia shrugged one bare shoulder. "No. You shouldn't. You haven't been my partner for two years, Elliot, you are completely absolved of any responsibility."

"I'll always be your partner," he answered, voice low and eyes on her face. "You know that."

She shrugged again, threw her ice-pack aside, "I don't know anything anymore." Then, getting to her feet, she walked in her bra and sweat pants to a closed door by the bed.

Elliot sat up straight. "Where you goin' now?"

"Bathroom," she said, turning back to him. "I shower three times an hour now. It's a little quirk I developed recently." She paused, tipped her chin at the hotel room door, "Feel free to let yourself out though."

"I'm not going anywhere," he told her. But the bathroom door swung shut on his sentence, making him unsure whether she'd even heard him.

-x-

Olivia put her back against the door, bones sagging in relief. The adrenaline rush she'd received from the unexpected reappearance of her partner was fast fading, causing her limbs to shake with withdrawal. Of all the scenarios in which she'd imagined encountering Elliot Stabler again, this one had never occurred to her. She'd wanted to be poised, prepared, friendly but aloof. If— _when _she came face to face with him again, she wanted to prove – to him, to herself, to everyone – that she was over him. Him and his cruel departure. And after two years, she really thought she was. It was just like him to happen upon her at an unguarded moment, ruthlessly tear apart her private expectations and make her realize just how angry, how hurt, how absolutely betrayed she still felt. Her poor, shocked body hadn't known whether to pick a fight or take flight. So she'd done a little of both.

Lifting her head, Olivia exchanged a sympathetic look with her mirror image and saw what she always saw, in every mirror and window and reflective surface. She saw her face after Lewis had finished with her, after she'd managed to gain her freedom. She saw the face of a monster. The face of the wounded woman she would be from that day forth. The face of her new life, bloody and ugly, staring back at her. Her eyes closed over and her hand instinctively reached into her pocket, fingers closing around the small medallion she'd spent the past few days clasping while she sobbed and shook and smarted. She was surprised she hadn't gained a matching indentation in the center of her palm.

Returning to the wreckage of her apartment, there were only two things she'd wanted to rescue. The last photograph taken of her and her mother that had stood for years by the arm of her couch. And the medallion Elliot had sent her in lieu of a proper goodbye. At some point, she'd stopped wearing it round her neck, not needing the daily reminder. Not that it worked. There was still his desk, his chair, his perpetually unused mug. There was still his name, spoken by colleagues in common when they thought she wasn't present. There was still his signature, his writing when an old case needed revisiting. And there was still his voice in her head, making a wry quip or hating a perp with more intensity than she could ever muster. Occasionally, it still told her to blink her lights when she entered her apartment. And occasionally, she still did.

He'd never left her, not completely. He'd just become another of her ghosts, keeping her company when the loneliness set in. But now he was back. In the flesh and as familiar as ever. With the same eyes and voice and body. With the same mixture of kindness and doggedness that she'd craved after every tough case, after every demoralizing failure and after every horrible brush with death. _Elliot was here._ And she didn't know why or what to expect or how to act. She didn't know whether to expect his presence when she left the bathroom – she didn't even know if she wanted it. Olivia wasn't sure what terrified her more – the prospect of opening the door separating them and finding him gone or the prospect of opening it and finding him still there.

Critically low expectations were a lifestyle choice for her though, as was a fairly constant state of turmoil and exhaustion. Add her recent trauma and his bizarre arrival to the mix and she was close to collapse. Still – everything would be better after a shower. It was the motto she'd been living her solitary hotel room existence by for three days, with middling results. So she reached into the shower and turned the knob, giving the water time to heat. Then, avoiding the gaze of her own reflection, Olivia unclasped her bra and dropped her sweat pants. But not before placing the medallion very carefully on the hotel room sink.

Stepping under the warm spray, part of her was preparing to open the door and find him once again gone, an empty water glass and a ring of condensation the only remaining clues of his presence. Another part of her wondered whether he was a mere apparition, conjured by her sleep-deprived mind and her constant clutching of the cherished memento. But another, more buried part of her whispered that she knew Elliot Stabler, that she knew him in this mood and she could try to shake him all she wanted. He wasn't going anywhere.

Olivia shook her head and turned her face into the spray. She'd believe it when she saw it.

-x-

Hearing the muted hiss of the shower in the next room, Elliot shed his jacket and rolled up his sleeves. First, he located the room service menu. It sat neatly by the phone on the nightstand just as it probably had since Olivia checked in. He ordered sandwiches and fruit and another bottle of water in another bucket of ice. Then he set about putting her room to rights. He scooped up the scattered bras and tucked them into her open suitcase. He folded her leggings, her discarded t-shirt and sweatshirt and sat them on top. He folded the days-old newspaper and swept the spent tissues into the trash. He tied back the curtains and shook out the twisted sheets. He made the bed and plumped the pillows and when he saw a picture frame by the bed that had been turned face down, he set right the photo of Olivia with her mother.

By the time his partner emerged from the bathroom, hair wet, feet bare, body wrapped in a white fluffy robe and mist circling about her, he was standing at a food cart in the middle of the spotless floor, pouring fresh water into two fresh glasses. Her eyes looked for him first, before registering anything else.

Olivia tightened the sash of her robe, murmuring at his continued presence, "Why aren't I surprised?" Unlike earlier though, her voice had lost its edge and found some of its old humor.

"I ordered room service," he replied, flourishing a hand like an eager salesclerk.

"'Course you did." She wandered closer, warily eying the food.

Elliot handed her a fizzing glass. "I figured you haven't been eating."

"And how d'you figure that?"

"They told me you haven't."

"This place's meant to be discreet," she muttered, glancing about her neatened room.

"Nothing fancy," he said, lifting her plate to just under her nose. "Just good old-fashioned corn beef on rye."

Her gaze flicked down to the sandwich then up again to him. "Extra mustard?"

He smiled. "As if I'd forget."

She shook her head and took the plate. "God damn you, Stabler."

"He probably has already, many times over. Now sit—" he nodded to the end of the bed, "and eat."

Olivia backed up a step or two and sat on the end of the bed with the plate in her lap. Elliot pulled a chair up to the cart that sat between them like a mini dining table. Picking up his own plate, he lifted his sandwich to his mouth and watched Olivia's eyes catch on his naked ring finger. She averted her gaze, took a breath and inserted her sandwich into her mouth. After three more bites, three more furtive glances at his hand and more silence than he could withstand, Elliot asked:

"You gonna ask about my ring?"

She swallowed and looked green. "Nope. If you're itchin' to tell me though, I'm not gonna stop you."

He munched, licked some mayonnaise off his fingertips. Then told her, "I filed for divorce two months ago."

Olivia dropped her sandwich. "I think I'm gonna be sick."

"Ha-ha."

"I'm serious, I'm gonna—" She put her plate aside, one hand lifting to cover her mouth.

Elliot looked up, saw her bulging eyes and bent head, the color of her cheeks and her quivering hand. He threw his plate onto the cart with a careless clank then rolled it out of the way. Dumping the dripping bottle, he grabbed the ice bucket and positioned it under her chin just in time for Olivia to lose what little she'd ingested of her lunch.

"Okay, okay…" he rubbed her back and tucked back her hair, just as he'd done for five children and numerous victims, "there we go, okay…"

Olivia continued to dry-wretch into the bucket, back heaving and cheeks burning. When her head finally drooped in defeat, he took the bucket away, set it on the floor and handed her her water glass.

"'Kay, so clearly the corn beef was a mistake," he murmured as she sipped, "that was my bad."

Olivia spluttered into her water, laughing weakly. The sound caused a corresponding smile in him. He watched her drink, wipe her mouth with the back of her hand then lift her gaze, finding him close by on the bed. It might have been the dull laughter or the sudden proximity or both that allowed a thin thread of buried affection to resurface, reminding each of the intimacy and trust they'd spent years underestimating. Elliot's smile softened, he smoothed back a snake of damp hair and watched her eyes shift away again.

"Before…" she murmured, her voice low and eyes on her drink, "when you touched me at the door. That was the first time anyone has touched me since…" she took a long pause, "he did."

Elliot opened his mouth to speak, to broach that most dangerous of subjects.

But Olivia lifted a hand, her eyes slipping shut. "Don't— don't you say his name. Everyone else can say it but you, _you_ can't…"

Elliot shifted closer, his hand now lying still and flat on her back. "Liv, it's part of the training, you know that. Cassidy, Amaro, your whole squad – they're all taught to be careful when reaching out to—" He cut himself off, shame crawling up his face as he realized what he'd stepped into.

Olivia looked up. "Victims," she said, eyes on his.

"Victims," he murmured quietly, contritely. He nodded, eyes moving over her face, and found he was right, what he'd said before. He loved very scrape, adored every bruise, worshipped every little and large hurt she'd somehow survived. But beyond that— beyond all that… "God, this face…" Elliot lifted a hand, slid it over her cheek to cup her jaw, "I've _missed_ this face."

Her eyes watered. "Please…" she curled a hand round his forearm, tugged his hand away. "Don't…" Olivia rose and took three steps away.

Elliot just sat, watching her once again pull away. "Olivia."

"Why're you here?" she said with her back to him. He could hear the tears in her voice, the tightness in her throat, the exhaustion and confusion in her tone. "Why come back now, Elliot? Why _now_?"

He rose to his feet and knew now was the time. His life made no more sense than when he'd met her – in fact, it made much, much less. And in over fifteen years, he still hadn't found the perfect sentence. But he never would. Words were not his strength. His strength was in his heart – in what he felt, in how much he felt, in how unwavering he was and how committed he could be, if tested. Because the long-denied truth was that his love for her hadn't dissipated, no matter how long he stayed away or how fiercely he denied himself. Nor had it dissipated with her persistent attempts to shut him out or keep him at arm's length. It only made him love her more intensely, need her more desperately, desire her more devoutly than anything in his already overflowing life.

Olivia turned at his silence and when she did, Elliot pushed past the obstruction in his throat to deliver a confession that boasted little in eloquence but everything in honesty:

"Because I never could get over you. Twelve years with you and two years without – nothing changed the fact that you are my partner. My other half. You're the love of my life, Liv, you always have been. Losing you isn't an option. And I plan on never letting it happen again."

-x-

It was all too enormous.

So they walked. At a slower pace than they ever did as partners pursuing a case. They strolled in silence, in contemplation and bewilderment, in remembrance and in peace. At times, they glanced about, taking in the whimsy and glitz of the city they so rarely registered the lighter side of. At times, they stared straight ahead, lost in their own bubble, in their complicated past and tenuous future. At times, all that mattered was that the person they'd scanned every street and crowd and crossroad for during the last two years was finally there beside them.

They decided their route without a word, taking this corner and crossing that street, making it up as they went, falling easily and completely back into sync with the body by their side. They walked until afternoon turned into twilight. Then they found a little tavern with an upstairs balcony and ordered a jug of cold, sweet iced tea. After the waiter left them, Elliot leant forward, opening his mouth and taking a breath.

"Not yet," Olivia murmured.

Nodding once, he leant back again in his seat, content to just watch New York slip from her mellow twilight into her ferocious night. He never feared it, not as long as they were together – a feeling that was unspoken but mutual.

On the way back, as they were passing some incomplete roadworks, Elliot offered her his hand. And this time, Olivia took it, grasping tight as she half-stepped, half-jumped over the gravelly ditch in the tarmac. Once on solid ground, she didn't let go.

After so many long years, all they'd gone through, seen and been, strolling hand-in-hand through New York's lit-up streets like the couple they weren't was a simple, strange sort of bliss that didn't feel quite right. Quite deserved. Quite them. Yet both their paces slowed, prolonging the return journey, relishing each minute that their palms remained in a loose, unfamiliar kiss. Words would be needed at some point. But for those few, immeasurable minutes, actions were enough. Actions were more than enough. Just the feel of his hand in hers and hers in his was enough to muzzle their minds and let their hearts at last have their say.

-x-

"You look exhausted."

They were the first words that had passed between them in over an hour. And they were true. Elliot had seen her tired, drained, overwhelmed. That had been the functioning norm for both of them for their entire partnership. He'd seen her wounded before too, laid low in the line of duty. But he'd never seen Olivia so wreaked that she could barely stand, so devastated that she could barely keep her eyes open.

"I haven't slept in…" Her eyes drifted sideways as she attempted to do the math. But even finishing her sentence seemed beyond her.

"So sleep," he said, joining her at the foot of the bed.

Olivia cast a reluctant glance at the neatly made bed but said nothing. Elliot wasn't sure if her reluctance was due to her fear of the demons lurking in her unconscious, demons she'd been trying to battle alone. Or if she didn't yet trust his presence enough to believe he'd be there when she awoke. Either way, he was able to assure her:

"Nothing's getting at you as long as I'm here. And I'm not going anywhere."

Her head bobbed in acquiescence, her resistance spent. She moved to the bedside, pulled back the covers and sat on the edge of the mattress. While Olivia toed off her shoes and peeled off her socks, Elliot went to the window and closed the curtains. When he pulled off his own shoes and socks though, she stopped and stared at him. He stared back, shedding his jacket as well. At the slightest signal from her, he'd stop, he'd back off. None came. He fit his jacket over the back of a chair then walked to the bed with her dark eyes tracking his progress. As he was reaching for the zipper on his trousers, she said:

"There's a couch."

Elliot stopped, glanced at the short, hard sofa. "Do you want me to use it?"

Her lips parted. Eventually, silently, she shook her head. So Elliot unzipped his pants, stepped out of them and threw them across the base of the bed. In the meantime, Olivia was rummaging beneath her shirt for her bra.

"It hurts," she explained with a sheepish look, pulling it out her sleeve and flinging it to the floor.

Elliot nodded, pulled back the covers on his side and slipped into bed beside her. Olivia turned out the light then tucked her feet under the covers, letting out a sigh as she lay down. She lay facing him, her wounded wrist tucked close to her body. He turned on his side to face her, one arm curling beneath his pillow. They each lay straight, keeping to their side of the bed. They did not touch. They did not talk. And before long Olivia's eyes had drifted shut. Elliot found himself likewise overcome with exhaustion, his body finally able to relax only now that it had re-found its absent other half.

"El?"

Her voice was soft, slurry, and came just as he was falling into oblivion. He opened his eyes on her face, her eyes closed but her brow creased.

"Mm…?"

The ache in her voice shattered his heart:

"I wanted you."

He exhaled heavily. "I know."

"I wanted you to come, I waited for you."

"I know. I'm sorry."

"Not just with Lewis." A single tear rolled down her bruised cheek, landing with a soft pat on her pillow. "I mean…every day. All those years. I never…knew what I wanted, never… followed it, never— I never…thought I could…have it or…deserve it." Her eyes opened, meeting his in the still dark. "I don't know how but he saw that, and he used it. Even once I was free, he used it to bind me, to torture me, to make me squirm."

"You're not bound now," he replied in a whisper. "Neither of us is."

Olivia drew in a breath and released it, eyes dipping shut again. "…El?"

"My love?"

There was a pause. She was digesting. She was preparing. She was releasing.

"One more time."

He smiled slightly, never recalling feeling so at peace. He shifted a little closer, burrowed a little deeper into his pillow. This cost him nothing to say, to repeat, as often as she needed him to. "I'm not going anywhere. Trust me. From now on, I don't want to be anywhere but here."

-x-

Olivia slept for five straight, dreamless hours. And Elliot was there when she woke.

Her eyes fluttered open at just past midnight to find she hadn't shifted an inch. The furthest her bedmate had ventured was onto his back, one hand flung over his chest which rose and fell in a deep, steady rhythm. Olivia shifted in the darkness of the hotel room, in the warmth of the sheets, testing her limbs' slowly returning strength. They felt floppy and weak and sated with sleep. The slight movement roused Elliot from his light doze. His eyes opened, his head turned toward her. And shifting onto his side, he reached out, cupping her face with one, warm, sleep-slackened hand.

He moved in – slowly, gently, silently – and kissed the gash in the left corner of her forehead. Then he pulled back. Elliot took a breath and let it out, eyes running over her face, seeing everything despite the dim light. Then he leaned in again, lightly kissing the raised, red welt on her opposite cheek.

Olivia gulped and blinked back rising tears. When he pulled back again, her vision had adjusted to the shadows and she could see in her partner's eyes her own reflection. No monsters glared back at her, no demons threatened her life, her future, her sanity. She saw only herself – a little worse for wear, but herself. Not only as she saw herself but as he saw her. Strong. Resilient. Immortally loved. Olivia reached out, resting a hand on his chest, over his heart. And when Elliot leant in a third time, her lips met his in a soft, slow kiss that swelled and ebbed and swelled again and didn't dissolve until morning.

_END. _


End file.
